


House Rules (And How He Broke Them)

by type_40_consulting_detective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 + 1, Come at Once Porn Chalenge, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Time, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rules are made to be broken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 18:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1275805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/type_40_consulting_detective/pseuds/type_40_consulting_detective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Sherlock's mind rules are meant to be broken. Lots of rules, older rules, all the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House Rules (And How He Broke Them)

1) Don't use my laptop

With his own laptop all the way across the room, it was John's he was opening to check his e-mails. 

“Simple, simple password, have you listened to a word I said? Hardly have to guess.” Sherlock says aloud to the empty sitting room. Even with John at work, or somewhere else, Sherlock still speaks to him to combat the silence. Quiet means boring.

“7 new messages.”

“Boring.”

“Spam.”

“Wife did it.”

“Check the ditch beside the bar.”

“Spam.”

“Of course he's not your son, honestly!”

“Spam again. Does anyone really believe they can enlarge that with a pill?”

Checking his own website, he finds no messages or comments, despite the recent update on identifying types of perfumes.

“10 new scents cataloged, in detail, and not a peep.” Well, since any previous comments were rude and stupid, no news was good news.

“What to do, what to do. The livers aren’t ready yet, finished all the cold case files. God where's a serial killer when you need one?!”

“Bit not good,” says John's voice in his head. “Have some tea and toast. Play some violin. Watch some telly. Clean something!”

“Boring, boring, BORING!” Sherlock screeched.

Sherlock closes the browser and resolves to go on a search for something he hadn't memorized microscopically, but spots a new folder on the desktop. Surely, John expected Sherlock to find it and to open it, so he did. A single text document, entitled READ ME.

SHERLOCK, GET OFF MY LAPTOP. WE TALKED ABOUT THIS.

“Who's ‘not good’ now, John? Didn't you ever learn to share?” An evil plot begins to form in his head, a bit of revenge. Petty, for sure “not good”, but deserved.

Quick as a flash, he opens a browser window and pulls up the history. “27 different porntube videos? Someone took his time. Guess he is getting older.” He copy/pastes every url from every shady site in to the word document, and saves it with an end note.

SHALL WE TALK ABOUT THIS TOO? -SH

A quick look at the clock tells him John should be home in about 2 hours, probably with take out and a desire to watch terrible TV. Long boring night planned, a murder notwithstanding. Instead, he will find his laptop open on the desk and Sherlock slicing livers on the kitchen table without a cutting board. Oh, the impending argument will be quite fun.

 

2) Body Parts in the fridge are covered and labeled

“Sherlock, What in the bloody hell is this?” John yells from the kitchen.

“Which 'this', John?” Sherlock asks, innocently. He's posed in thought on the couch, bracing for the excitement.

“You know damn well Sherlock.” John steps his way into the sitting room, shoulders squared and fuming. “In the fridge. Top shelf.”

Sherlocks smirks, not opening his eyes. “Thought you'd know what that is, you've had enough experience with them.”

“For the last bloody time, I'm not g-”

“No, but you are a doctor.” Sherlock opens his eyes and swing to a sitting position, still not looking at John.

“And this is not staying here. Christ, why do you need a cock in the fridge?”

“Observing the micro-scarring and loss of urethral sphincter muscle tone due to recreational sounding.”

John pauses, splutters a bit, and flops down in his chair. “Ah. Do I want to....never mind. Why do I ask?”

“Insanity.” Sherlock turns, punctuating his word with an intense stare.

“What?”

“Doing the same thing repeatedly, and expecting a different result. Insanity.”

“Story of my life,” John mumbled grumpily. “You know what this means, Sherlock?”

“What what means?”

“You are buying takeaways, and you are eating.”

“It is covered!” he protested, rising to pace the carpet.

“It is tied in a condom, unlabeled, middle of the top shelf.” John replied calmly.

“You didn't make me buy takeaway when there was a whole head in the fridge.”

“And why do you think there are fridge rules now, Sherlock?” John rose, and went to the kitchen  
drawer that houses their takeaway menus, and finds it also has an assortment of gum wrapper cranes this week. “Thai or Chinese?”

“Giving me a choice, when you know what I'll pick?”

“Could be worse, I could drag you out for gyros again.” John replies. 

Sherlock shudders at the idea, though he had deleted why. “No, no, no. The agreement was takeaways, delivered. I don’t have to leave the house.” He considers his options for a moment, then declares “Thai.”

John grabs the menu from the drawer and Sherlock’s phone from the counter. As he steps back in, he asks “Not Chinese?”

“You like their pad thai. I’ll suffer through, no matter what we get.”

“See, I knew this was paying off.”

“What was?” Sherlock quirks his head to the side as he reaches out for the menu.

“My insanity. Off to shower. Don’t forget the spring rolls.”

 

3) Try to eat and sleep every 24 hrs

Regaining consciousness, Sherlock blinks blearily up at John. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. In fact, he’s sure he was standing by the desk, complaining loudly about the lack of competent techs at New Scotland Yard. John was typing another blog entry, catching up on the last two weeks of back to back fantastic cases. Now he’s laid out on the couch, John checking his brow for fever and carefully watching him.

“Well, good morning sunshine. Do I even want to ask when you last slept?”

“There’s a case on, John, do keep up. Brain work, the transport can wait.”

“And you promised to try and take better care of the transport. You’re coming down with something now. Do I want to ask when you last ate?”

“If you’d like a reason to yell, do please ask.” Picking this fight may get Sherlock out of eating, at least. ”My phone, John. Has Lestrade responded?”

“The trail has gone cold, Sherlock.” he replies, too calmly.

“I had to have missed something. Text him, we’re headed to the scene.”  
“It’s midnight. You’re going to eat and sleep, and we’ll start again in the morning.”

“John,” Sherlock whines, “I’m on a case!”

Unfazed, John gets up from the side of the couch and heads to the kitchen to switch on the kettle.“And you won’t last to the end without a meal and some rest.”

“It’s all your fault.” Sherlock accuses, and stomps over to his chair. He folds in compactly, and stares in at John’s domestic scene.

Setting tea cups down harder than strictly necessary, John turns to meet his eyes. “How is it my fault, when all I do is try to keep you fed and rested?”

“Exactly! I have no endurance now. I have to eat EVERY DAY, for God’s sake!” 

“And you’ve never been so healthy, Greg says. You’re still spot on, Sherlock.”

“Greg remembers me as strung out and half dead. I need to be working, John”

“You’ve worked nearly two weeks straight now. There is no work to do right now. You are going to have tea, eat, and go to bed.” He sets down a cup of an herbal blend Sherlock’s never had before, deep ruby and smelling like hibiscus and chamomile. Sherlock is tempted, John can tell, but the cup is ignored on principle.

“I can’t force feed you, but I can certainly take you to bed.”

Sherlock blushes and sputters, and John back tracks. “Carry you. Carry you to bed, Sherlock, not…  
Anyway, that’s how you got to the couch.”

A long and awkward pause later, Sherlock replies quietly “Can you heat up the risotto?”

John chuckles and heads to the fridge.

 

4) Stay Out of My Room

Sherlock hears the nightmares start, and quietly creeps up the stairs to John's room. He tells himself he's just curious, observing respiratory rates and muscle movements of a person having a nightmare may help in a case. He can slide it into the files for later reference and study. Never manages to lie to himself very well.

What's wrong with wanting to watch strong legs struggle against military perfect bed corners, wanting to see what face John makes when he is terrified, wanting to understand what shakes his unshakable man?

Slowly opening the door, and thanking himself for remembering to oil the hinges, he peers in. Sherlock's eyes adjust quickly to the darkness, which is not much deeper than that in the sitting room.

John is in only pajama bottoms and a sheet, window open to tempt a non-existent summer breeze. There is a fine sheen of sweat across John's face, glistening in the lights of the street through his window.

John's face is twisted in pain, practically spelling out sentences in the expressive lines. His injured shoulder is pressed hard into the bed, turning his body towards the door. He mumbles in his "Captain John Watson" voice (the voice of a man that expects his words to be followed), perhaps ordering other soldiers to flee, or charge. His breath is steady but elevated, arms tight.

He is the most amazing thing Sherlock has ever seen. Power exudes from him in waves like visible steam, blocking out all thinking. All he knows for certain, is that voice takes the fast track to action, skipping most of the gray matter.

A strangled whimper escapes Sherlock's mouth as he shifts, realizing he is half hard and approaching full mast at an alarming rate. Fleeing to the couch, he lays down and closes his eyes. So many thoughts swirl that he dives in to his own head to sort them, to order them before he is overwhelmed.

 

5) Don’t bother me when I come back from the pub

 

A fumbling of the key in the front door wakes Sherlock from his light doze, curled tightly in the corner of the couch.. He hears John call out a thanks to Lestrade, then climb the stairs to the flat. Sherlock briefly debates faking sleep, letting John go to bed, but makes up his mind. He needs to know.

The glow through the windows provides the only light, and John makes it to the kitchen without spotting the still form on the couch.

“John”

“Ah, Sherlock. Still up? ‘Course you are. Getting water, off to bed.”

“John, stay down here.” Sherlock sits up in to the corner of the couch.

“Sherlock, I’ll fall asleep in the chair.”

“No you won’t, you only had five pints. Sit down on the couch.” Sherlock steels himself, and is quite grateful for that dark that hides his glistening eyes. “Please?”

John’s eyes suddenly sober a bit, but he walks over to the couch and sits down, bracing himself. “What is it, Sherlock?”

“I’m not, right. Something is not right. Something’s off, somehow?”

“What do you need?” John asks, careful and concerned.

“Just...don’t leave me alone. I can’t…” Sherlock’s voice trails off into a soft sob, and he can’t stop it. The first tear slips down his cheek, and he’s counting on the dark to hide it,

“Ok, Sherlock, it’s fine. I’m just getting some water. Or tea, I’ll get us both some tea.”

With tea made, and paracetamol taken, John walks back to the sitting room. Sherlock has curled up tightly in his blue dressing gown, a shaking ball of barely concealed panic. “Sherlock?” John questions as he quietly sits on the other end of the couch.

“John,” Sherlock whimpers. He slowly unfolds and crawls to John, laying himself against the warmth of a shoulder. He clings to a strong arm, and whimpers John’s name again.

John is frozen under Sherlocks touch for a long moment, then runs his left hand through dark curls, smoothing them back from a cool brow.

“Shh, Sherlock. You’re shaking like a leaf. What’s wrong?”

“Some nights, it’s harder to, to cope. I can feel something is wrong, but I don’t know what. I deleted it, but it won’t stay gone.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John’s fingers were still stroking his hair, and he nuzzled in to the touch, with a tiny sigh.

“Don’t go, please. It’s better if, if you’d stay here.”

“Ok. I’ll stay. Do you want your tea?”

“No.” 

“Ok.” John shifts, and starts to drift off. In the moments before dreams, he feels warm lips press his neck. 

John sighs contentedly.

So does Sherlock.

 

6) Don’t leave without me

Sherlock’s Phone buzzes early the next morning, vibrating of the table and to the floor. He lifts his head from Johns lap, and wiggles out from under a sleep heavy arm. A case, just what he needed this morning! Maybe only a 4 or 5, but he’d take a 2 today. Last night was too much, too close and intimate to discuss in the light of day. 

Mostly dressed five minutes later, he distractedly slips on his coat while walking out the door. Two steps later, his untied shoelace trip him up, and he tumbles down the half flight to the landing. Everything hurts. He groans louder than he means to as he gets up. The door to the flat slams open, and John’s eyes scan the scene for danger.

“Sherlock?” John questions.

“Yes,” He replies from the ground with a faked casual tone.

“Tripped, or trouble?” he asks, half amused, half anticipating. 

“Neither. Practicing bartitsu. Never know when you’ll need to fall down a flight of stairs properly” Sherlock attempted to stand, but faltered when he put weight on his right ankle.

“Hmm, well I think you haven’t mastered that one yet. Come up and let me look at it.”

Sherlock shifts impatiently on his one good foot, and glances at the front door. “Lestrade. A case, John. Need to be out.”

“Out of 10?” John asks. 

Inconvenient questions, must get moving. “5, well 4, but he needs me.”

“Without me?” John voice breaks subtly.

Sherlock looks anywhere but John’s face, and lies “I thought you needed the sleep.”

“You need me more, you idiot.”

Sherlock tries to step again, and his ankle gives out from under him. John’s phone is out of his pocket and dialing before Sherlock can protest.

“Greg, it’s John. How bad do you need His Highness? Sprained his ankle, I think. Pitched down the stairs on his way out. No, I didn’t push him. Not taking pictures for you, Greg. Oh, yeah, send your pictures over, he’s working from home today. Well, he says it’s only a 4, so it should be solved by tea time. I know, I know. Mine’s not splitting, but it’s dead near. Drink another tea. Will do. Later.”

Limping up a step, Sherlock glares at John. “I will be fine, Wrap it and I’ll go to the scene in a cab.”

“The murder is on the top floor, and the elevator is broken, Sherlock. Pictures are on headed to your inbox. Come up and let’s ice it.”

“I’ll get ice on the way, stay here.” Sherlock manages two steps, and cries out.

“Why are you being so stubborn?”

“Why do you care so much?” He shouts,and it echos in the stairwell. 

“No, Sherlock. You are coming up here right now. Doctor’s orders.”

“Make me.” he dares.

John squares his shoulders, and practically marches down the stairs. One arm around Sherlock’s middle back, one behind his thighs, and he’s scooped up like a baby. He freezes, but only so that John doesn’t send him tumbling down the steps a second time. He lays his head against the same shoulder as last night, and holds on a little tighter than strictly necessary.

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock is propped up in bed, frozen peas on a rapidly bruising ankle. On the bed side table is tea and toast with an obscene amount of marmalade. On the bed next to him is a silent John, pulling up photos on his own computer. As predicted, the case is quite simple. Home many murders that look like suicides would he be forced to solve, before Lestrade figures out how to tell the difference? Case solved, tea and food consumed, Sherlock expects John to leave the room.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm?” Sherlock replies, distractedly.

“What was last night?”

A lead weight hits the pit of his stomach, and he takes a deep breath before answering. “A moment of weakness.”

“Oh.” John shifts uncomfortably in the bed.

“One that won’t be repeated.” Sherlock says with finality.

Silence stretches between them, and John gets up to go.

“I don’t mind.” John says, as he pauses in the doorway. ”If you need me...it...something...you know...sometimes.”

“Why would I need you?”

“No reason.”

As the door closes, Sherlock changes his mind. “John?”

“Mmm?”

“Maybe, I might need, something. Sometimes.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe, now? If you don’t mind.”

John kneels on the bed facing Sherlock, and adjusts the pile of blankets that his ankle’s perched on. Warm fingers check the swelling of his ankle, finding it better than expected. With a deep breath, John’s fingers start up the outside of Sherlock's calf in slow, calming circles. Up higher, over a knee and across a long, lean thigh. still not making eye contact.

“John, I think you’re feeling…”

“Sherlock.”

“John, wait.”

“Sherlock, please?” John turns his eyes to lock with his, dark and wanting and promising pleasure. “For me?”

“Anything.” Sherlock gasps, and means it.

John’s second hand joins in on the opposite leg, and he strokes up and down both thighs a few times, knee to hip. Sherlock’s breath quickens, and his mind fogs around the edges as all his blood rushes south at an alarming rate. His strong pulse beats throughout his body, pain in his ankle and hot want everywhere else. With one hand ghosting across ribs, and the other untucking the white dress shirt, Sherlock whimpers and shifts down the bed to lie back further.

Slowly, reverently, John unbuttons the shirt and slides it open. hand stroked firmly across his torso. Sherlock raises him arm heavily off the bed to wrap around John’s body, hand pressing in the dip of spine just about the waistband of his jeans.

“Amazing,” John croons, and Sherlock writhes beneath the the careful fingers, flicking at a hard nipple and stroking at the trail of hair that leads under tailored trousers. The two hands met at the the flies, and undo them. Sherlock shifts them down his hips one handed to reveal silky pants tented and spotted wet with pre-cum. 

“Extraordinary,” John murmurs lustfully as he slides his hand up and down the clothed length, and down to the balls and creases along the upper thighs. Sherlock bucks up in to the strokes, beyond trying to maintain composure. Fire runs in his veins, and he’s melting. 

“Fantastic,” John purrs, pressing his lips to the head of Sherlock’s cock in a chaste kiss. It takes all his willpower not to buck and thrust while lips and tongue and fingers explore new territory. Too soon, John pulls away and stands up. He strips off his own jeans and pants, and settles himself over Sherlock, cocks side by side, pressing into soft flesh.

“Brilliant,” John moans as he thrusts against Sherlock’s stomach, rubbing his own hip on Sherlock’s cock in the process. Tender kisses along a pale neck leave him completely undone, crying out as the fire pools in his stomach and burns him to ashes. 

“More, please, more, John, ungh, there, please, now, please, pl-’” Sounds that are nothing like language and everything like sobbing are coming from him, and his mind is blank as he explodes against John, coating them in hot cum. The slickness give John that last push he needs, and he’s grinding in Sherlock, adding new bruises as he loses it.

Hot, wet panting against his neck, Sherlock slowly comes back to himself. Gripped by fear, he stills under John, waiting for the fallout.

“Shh, it’s fine, shh love. It’s all fine”

And it is, it really is.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to janto321 for editing and encouraging me as I popped my smut writing cherry. I owe you 12.


End file.
